


The Cuban Affair

by Aelyna



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, IED, Post-breakup, Rage, Romance, Woman of Colour
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4627110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelyna/pseuds/Aelyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mysterious Mr Thrush is working with the Cuban government to produce a deadly germ warfare agent. Since Thrush does not share the Communist ideology, the Soviets don't want the weaponised virus falling into his hands, anymore than the Americans want it falling into Cuba's. U.N.C.L.E. is called in, but with Gaby on a mission in France, Illya and Napoleon will be working with British Intelligence Agent Vinette Adair - a woman of Cuban descent, and an agenda of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meeting Miss Adair

**Illya**

“Why can't I work with the cowboy?”  
“Because Solo isn't Cuban! For God's sake, it's three days at the most.”  
“He can pretend to be Cuban.”  
“How could he pretend to be Cuban?” Waverly asked, without requiring an answer, though that subtly was lost on the Russian.   
“Put on an accent...”  
“And black face? That would do wonders for race relations. No Illya, Napoleon is back-up, Gaby's in Paris, and you're going to work with Ms Adair, now that is the end of it.”  
“I don't like it.”  
“You so rarely do. If it helps, she's very pretty.” It did not. Gaby was very pretty, that had not helped. He was glad she was in Paris; it gave him time to forget her, the next mission they worked, they would be allies, maybe friends, and nothing more.

“Now the Cubans are not our friends, and we can't get you in with any other British agent, so try not offend her too quickly, make sure you're on the plane in fact, that way she can't back out.” Illya grunted, “Maybe a smile?” He twitched, “Then perhaps lose the scowl.” The scowl remained. “Fine, let's go in and get this over with.”

Ms Adair was sitting on a bar stool inside, her glossy legs were crossed, her glossy hair fell in perfect spirals, her glossy nails tapped on her glass. She really was _very_ pretty. But it was all studied, nothing like Gaby's easy, almost masculine, approach to her own appearance; clearly this woman had spent time and money to make sure she looked like a model.

She didn't stand to greet them, waiting for Waverly to offer a hand before she stepped down from the stool, with her glossy red shoes on, she was almost as tall as the head of U.N.C.L.E.; Illya sniffed and looked down on her. “Lovely to see you Alexander, as always.” She said, with an accent so British it rivalled Waverly's, then kissed both his cheeks. “And you Etta, as always. My friend is Illya Kuryakin, KGB. Illya, this is Vinette Adair, British Intelligence.”  
“Such a pleasure Mr Kuryakin.” She extended a hand, slim fingers, gold rings that set off her brown skin. Illya sniffed again and ignored the gesture. “Well, I see your friend doesn't speak English. Such a pity the KGB can't afford to educate their agents, but I suppose an economy based around farming, in a place constantly under snow, is always going to struggle.”  
“You don't know what you're talking about.” Illya snapped, and Vinette smiled, painted lips moving, but her eyes remained cold.   
“But apparently you do, so we've at least discovered you can understand me. Do you have the files Alexander?”   
“Right here, and Illya's been briefed, so he can fill you in on anything you need clearing up.”  
“Excellent, we should be boarding any moment, but I'm sure we have time for a drink Mr Kuryakin, if you imbibe?” He shook his head,   
“Well, more for me.” She signalled the bartender with a slight motion, and the man nodded resentfully.

While she was engaged in conversation with Waverly, Illya watched the bartender prepare her drink. As he shoved it over the bar, Illya caught it and handed it back; “Why did you spit in the lady's drink?” Ms Adair looked over at him, Waverly took a resigned step back, he was wearing a new suit, and did not want blood on it.   
“I didn't.” Illya placed both his hands on the bar and lent forward threateningly, staring the man down. He broke quickly, “I shouldn't be serving her at all! Management says we have to let them in, but I don't have to be happy about it.” Vinette smiled pleasantly at him,   
“No, but since you _do_ have to serve me, I _will_ have another drink. On the house. And if you spit in this one, my husband is going to cut out your tongue; they do that in Russia you know – barbaric, but an effective way of silencing those better not heard.”

Illya did not like her swanning in and calling him her husband, he especially did not like being called barbaric, but the look on the bartender's face was amusing, so he let his displeasure show through, and nodded once. The man blanched and scuttled off to make another drink. Vinette smiled again, eyes still two untouched orbs of brown and black, and put a hand on Illya's arm; “Thank you.” He moved his arm and said nothing. Waverly rolled his eyes,   
“Well, now you're getting along, I'll be off. Good luck, don't forget to check in regularly.” He waved once and wandered into the airport crowd. Vinette turned back to the bar, smiling her shark smile at the bartender when he handed over her second drink. 

She sat in silence for a while, watching Illya not-watching her, and left the drink untouched until their flight was called. “Looks like we're on our way.”  
“Yes.”  
“Have you ever visited Cuba before?”  
“No.”  
“It is a lovely country.”  
“Hm.”  
“I hope you're a better spy than you are a conversationalist, Mr Kuryakin, or we are both going to die.”  
“I hope you are more observant when working, than you have been tonight, or I am going to let you.” She pinched her lips together grabbing the handle of her suitcase and thrusting it at him. “You're a darling.” He watched her glide through the crowd, and reluctantly picked up the case.

“Anything to drink sir?” Illya shook his head, waited for the stewardess to ask his companion, and frowned when she didn't.   
“Excuse me,” Vinette beckoned her back, “I will have a white wine spritzer.” The stewardess nodded and marched away.   
“The staff do not like you.”  
“The bartender didn't like me, _she_ just didn't like me with you.” Illya nodded slowly,   
“Will she spit in this drink, do you think?”  
“I assume so. Luckily, I don't really want it. I'll grab a bottled water in a while, she can't spit in that.”  
“Hm.”  
“Hm?”  
“I do not like this, if we were married, I would not let people treat you like this.”  
“Well, we are no such thing, so it doesn't really matter.” Every word was so crisp and exact, like her appearance, her voice was carefully constructed, it annoyed him a little less than it had half an hour ago. “Our covers are as husband and wife, in Cuba--”  
“I won't be treated like this in Cuba.” She lent back in her seat a little, though her spine was still rigid, “I am looking forward to it.”   
“We stop in America.”  
“Then by all means, defend my honour against the Capitalist Pigs, comrade. I promise you, I won't object.” She closed her eyes, and he watched her lashes brush against each other, long and black, they looked soft. He stopped thinking that the moment he realised he was. 

He ordered the bottled water while she was still pretending to be asleep, and left it on her seat table, settling down to read. When she yawned dramatically and blinked even more dramatically, he only raised an eyebrow, “What a lovely rest.”  
“Hm.” She smiled tightly,   
“I see you remain in excellent spirits.”  
“Yes. I apologise, for not shaking your hand.” She blinked at him, not dramatically, and he tried again not to notice her lashes. “I did not want to have to work with another agent, it was not because you are black.” People said he was too blunt, Napoleon said it a lot, and Gaby, but Vinette's eyes seemed to smile, though her mouth remained still, and he felt his honesty was well received. “Apology accepted, thank you for the water.” She really did sleep after that, spine relaxing enough that her head tipped onto her shoulder, a little turbulence had it resting against his arm.

He woke up with the descent, book loose in his hands, head on one side, directly above his new partner's; from this close, he could smell jasmine. He moved slowly, but she sat up sharply anyway, looking around like a startled rabbit. “We are landing.”  
“Of course.” She put up her table and smoothed her dress, Illya again noticed her glossy legs, and wondered if she put oil on them. She must. Though she couldn't forge the golden brown colour, that had to be nature's gift; he decided to stop looking at her legs when he noticed the raised eyebrow directed at him.

Alighting meant being assaulted by the many offences the United States committed, people eating and throwing their litter on the ground; shouting and laughing too loudly; the already drunk and the important businessman, shoving through crowds as though they had right of way. It was hot too, not natural heat, the heat of thousands of bodies all fighting for space. Sometimes, Illya missed Russian winters. And Cuba was going to be  **so** hot. 

Vinette was tall, but slight, and unbalanced on her heels, she kept being knocked into him; finally he grabbed her arm and pinned her to his side. She waited until they were outside, hailing a taxi cab, to say, “I'm sure you're intentions were chivalrous, but don't manhandle me again – I almost gutted you.” His sharp eyes caught her slipping a switchblade back into her coat pocket, and he had to admit, she was good with her hands. She might give Napoleon a run for his money.

The taxi driver was silent, a New Yorker of Italian descent, his silence managed to be disapproving, but both the Russian and British accent threw him off enough that he said nothing. It was tiring, sometimes, being Russian in America – it must be tiring being black in Britain too; this, along with her lashes and legs, made Illya want to soften towards the woman.

Solo was there, waiting for them on the front steps of the Waldorf Astoria. He greeted Illya with an easy grin and a call of, “Hey Peril, good to see you're not dead. I didn't think much of your chances without me around.”  
“I think we have already settled who the better agent is, Cowboy.”  
“Yes we have.” Napoleon winked, then turned his charming smile on the woman standing slightly behind Illya, “Good evening ma'am, hope you're flight wasn't too dull – I know what kind of company he can be.”  
“It was fine, thank you.” Solo took a few steps forward and offered a hand,  
“Napoleon Solo, a pleasure.” She shook it,  
“Vinette Adair, likewise.” Illya noted her tense posture, and wondered if it was painful to stand that straight all the time. Maybe that was why she had trouble smiling.   
“Well, you newlyweds are sharing a room, I'm on the floor above. We're heading off early tomorrow, got to catch a boat.”  
“You are not coming to Cuba.”  
“We'll see.”  
“The briefing said you are not to come unless we need backup.”  
“You will need back up, I'm just thinking, get over there early, and you won't have to wait around for me to come in and save the day.”  
“These are not our orders.”  
“No one has to know.”  
“Waverly has to know.”  
“Are you going to tell on me Peril?”  
“I am going to write an honest report.”  
“I'll write the report.”  
“Waverly says you are not writing reports anymore.”  
“What? Why not?”  
“Because you are not honest.”

Solo bid them a cheerful goodnight, and Illya noticed how deeply Vinette breathed when he closed the door behind them. “Does he make you uncomfortable.” She wouldn't be the only one, it had taken some time to grow used to Napoleon Solo. She took a seat on the arm of the sofa, and began to remove her shoes, “No, he doesn't. No more than most other people.”  
“You are more relaxed now he is not here.”  
“That's because you make me less uncomfortable than most other people.” Illya could safely say no one had insinuated that he made them comfortable before. His size alone tended to put people on guard, especially woman, and when coupled with his tendency towards the laconic, most people thought he was frightening. 

Vinette put her shoes together neatly, and started unpinning her hair, letting the ringlets spring loose, by the time she was done, her hand was full of pins, and her hair was haloing her head. “This is too much hair.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“It is... difficult, to manage?”  
“Oh, yes, I suppose it is.” She shrugged, “I'm used to it.” For a while, she sat still and silent, mind clearly absent while Illya laid out a chess set. “I'm going to bed,” She disappeared into the room with the double bed, and closed the door. “Then I will sleep on the sofa.” Illya said to the empty room, which did not reply.

Since he always rose early, Illya assumed he would have time to exercise and shower before his 'wife' woke, he had not counted on her waltzing through the lounge area at 5.30am, wearing an exceptional satin creation, and closing the bathroom door, giving him barely a nod. He did an extra set of press ups, and then another, she was incredibly arrogant, and that satin creation was just... incredible.

 


	2. Illya and Etta in America

**Etta**

In the bathroom, Etta let water soak into her hair, feeling ringlets loosen under her fingers as she lathered it up. The scent of soap, the near-scalding water, and the white noise of the shower, blocked out all other sensations, and relaxed her almost completely; she didn't have to consider the quiet Russian, or the brash American, or the upcoming return to her home country. She didn’t have to think about bartenders, stewardesses, or taxi drivers. For a few minutes, she was allowed to think nothing at all. She would wash away the trials of the day before, ready to bear those of the day to come.

Upon leaving the bathroom, clad only in a towel, she did not expect her first trial to be a shirtless and sweaty Russian looming at her. “Good morning Miss Adair.” She made a noise that was definitely not a squeak, and retreated into the bathroom door. The Russian in question took a few steps back, looking awkward, but no less gigantic. “Good God! What are you doing man?”  
“Waiting for shower. I did not mean to scare you.”  
“Startle, you startled me, I am not that easily scared.” She slipped around him, walking with purpose, but no haste, towards the bedroom she had claimed as hers.

She did not come out until breakfast was brought to the door an hour later. By that time both were dry and dressed, something Etta reflected on as a bit of a shame. The man might be ridiculous, but he was very... well built. She tutted at herself, took a sip of her black coffee, and shook out the Times. The British Times naturally, the Waldorf offered international papers. Illya sat down to a breakfast of almost entirely protein, and poked at his chess set.

“You like chess?” He nodded, and she went back to the paper.   
“More coffee?”  
“Thank you, Mr Kuryakin.”  
“You should get used to calling me Illya.”  
“Um. You should call me Etta.”  
“I thought it was--”  
“Vinette. No one calls me Vinette, well, none of my friends.”  
“We are not friends.” She sipped the coffee he had poured, and thought they should be.   
“No, we are newlyweds.”

Solo let himself in at 9.30am, Vinette almost winced at his entrance, so loud and cheerful, “Coffee? Great! So, are we ready?”  
“ _We_ have been ready for hours.”  
“Did he wake you at the crack of dawn? He does that.”  
“Miss-- Etta, woke early without my interference. She is a real spy.” Etta smiled into her coffee, she knew the compliment was almost entirely for the purpose of insulting his friend, but it was nice to be appreciated.

“I'm a boarding school alum, I always wake early.”   
“I tend to sleep late.”  
“Because you are unprofessional.” Illya cut in.  
“Because there are better ways of working out in the dark than press ups.” Illya glanced up at that, his hand began a rhythmic tapping on the table, “So, you're getting on well then?” The tapping increased in tempo, Solo's eyes strayed to his partner's fingers, and he frowned. Etta noticed, filed it away, and smiled blandly at both of them. “Perfectly well, thank you. We should be on our way Mr Solo, if you don't mind.” She stood, sweeping out of the door with the expectation they would follow, which they did.

A man in a pinstripe suit approached her in the lobby, she was waiting for Illya and Solo to finish checking out, mind drifting. “Snap out of it missy! I need some service over here.” Ugh, Americans.  
“I'm sorry sir, but I don't work here.”  
“What do you mean you don't work here? You're not staying here.”  
“Yes, I am.” Impeccable dress and accent aside, the man could not get past her appearance. He goggled at her, until Illya came up next to her, and put an arm around her waist, one large hand pulling her into his side protectively. “What do you want?”  
“Oh I see, you are working here missy, and you should be ashamed of yourself!”  
“Are you insinuating that I am a prostitute?” Etta would have stepped forward, but for Illya's steadily tightening hand on her waist.   
“You have insulted my wife.”   
“Your wife?”  
“My wife.”  
“Sir, I am frankly disgusted that they let a couple like you into a nice place like this. I will be complaining to management.”  
“I don't care.” Illya said, and finally released her, taking a step forward of his own, “Now, go away.” The older man did, swiftly.

“I could have handled that.”  
“I was defending your honour to the Capitalist Pig, comrade.” He rejoined, and Etta accidentally smiled, eyes glancing down in response to the unexpected betrayal of her own mouth. “Thank you.” He held out an arm, which she took with a more studied smile.

“Brilliant. A four hour drive with Russia and England's most sullen passengers.” Etta blinked her way out of thought, and glanced at Illya, who shrugged.   
“I'm sorry Mr Solo, what would you like to talk about?”  
“How about I just put some music on?”  
“Of course,"  
“No.”  
“Jesus, why not?”  
“I am reading.”  
“You read, we'll listen to music.”  
“Etta does not wish to listen to music either.”  
“She just said yes.”  
“She does not mean it.” Etta was looking out of the window, wondering if she could kill one of them before the other noticed. She could, which meant she could kill both of them. But that would mean the car would crash. “Well, I think she does. I think you're just upset not every commie is as dour as you are, Peril.” It might be worth it.  
“I am of Cuban descent, Mr Solo, I am not a Communist.”  
“You called me comrade.”  
“I was being sarcastic, darling.” The venom in her voice was accidental, but it put the Russian's hackles up, and that was probably a mistake, they had been making progress, and it would be an easier few days if he trusted her. People never trusted those they disliked; which was how she knew the American and him really were friends, under all the vitriol.

The drive passed relatively undisturbed, the radio was on low, Illya was reading, Etta was looking out of the window, and Solo managed to keep his stream of consciousness down to the bare minimum.

The boat they were taking to Cuba was a yacht, with a skeleton crew, and two cabins. They could have had one each, but Solo was studiously ignoring protocol by coming with them, so they were stuck in a space far too small for comfort, and Etta could feel the simmering tension between herself and her fake husband. It was, she reflected, probably a good representation of many marriages. Her own father and step-mother never seemed particularly happy in one another's company.

“Please stop that, I am trying to concentrate.” She was bending over a small comms device on the bed, trying to find a signal, and having no luck. The damn thing kept hissing and shrieking at her, Illya was playing more chess. “I am trying to prep for the mission, perhaps you would like to help me?”  
“I have my own comms.” The desire to suck her teeth like her mother would have was almost overwhelming, but she resisted the urge, and tutted instead.  
“You sir, are a very trying partner.”  
“I am not your partner, I am your superior.”  
“Excuse me?”  
“I am the lead agent, you are assisting me.”  
“I assure you, that is not the case.”  
“This is an U.N.C.L.E. Mission, and I am Russian, we have good relations with Cuba. I am lead agent.”  
“Mr Kuryakin, I _am_ Cuban – and I have Alexander's assurance I am the lead on this. It was one of my conditions for working with you.”  
“Why?”  
“You are a KGB agent, I didn't trust you to work exclusively in the interest of the British government.”  
“I have worked with U.N.C.L.E. for months without incident.”  
“Excellent, let's not the break streak. I am going to go and ask Mr Solo to help me with this device, I think it's faulty, excuse me.” Illya held out his hand immediately,   
“I will fix it.” She smiled, and handed him the little box, she had always been good at finding the pressure point, this one's was Russian pride – he was in competition with his friend, and she would not forget that.

Napoleon was wearing a white suit, it looked expensive, but Etta still thought it was ridiculous. She was wearing a pale turquoise dress, white detail, her fingers were clenched, and her shoulders were tense. The sudden weight of a hand dropping onto one shoulder made her jump, “Relax Etta, we are on holiday, you look like you are going into fire fight.” Etta took a single breath, and let it out slowly, forcing every muscle to loosen as she smiled up at her pretend husband. “You look very nice.” He was wearing a suit too, rather than the polo neck/leather jacket combination she had been worried would have them thrown out of the Waldorf. His suit was light grey, and he had the jacket slung over one arm, no tie, crisp white shirt unbuttoned – perfect for the summer weather. 

“It is too hot for all these clothes. I do not like this weather, Russia is never this hot.” She rolled her eyes, safe in the knowledge he couldn't see her.  
“Russia is too cold for my tastes. I do not like having to wear that much fur.”  
“You have been to my country?”  
“Da, eto a prekrasnyy strana, no kholodnyy.” (“Yes, it is a glorious country, but cold.”)  
“Your accent is terrible.”  
“Well, I haven't had to speak Russian in a while. Are you a Spanish speaker?”  
“Yes, well, a little. It is nice, to hear Russian spoken so far from home.”  
“Even in a terrible accent?”  
“Even then.”  
“You give a terrible compliment, Illya.” He shrugged, and Etta watched the approach of the shore with some trepidation, Illya's hand on her should, hers clenched on the deck railings, knuckles glowing white against her dark skin.

“Why do you not want to go home?” His voice was quiet, a gentle rumble that fit with the movement of the ocean.  
“Home is England, it has been since I was a small girl. This _place_ is just a strange land to me.”  
“Your file said you have family here.”  
“Well, yes, but they will not know we are in the country. There is no need to involve them in this.”   
“How long ago was it your mother died?” The question was like a blow, she felt a sharp pain deep in her chest.  
“A very long time. How long ago was it your father was sent to Siberia?” Etta only meant to silence him, she did not expect the reflexively tightening on the hand on her shoulder. She gasped, and Illya let go, stepping back as though she was hot to the touch. Within a moment, Solo was next to them, offering drinks. He said nothing, but she noticed how his eyes remained on his friend, who's fingers tapped on the side of his glass. 

“Miss Adair, you must see this view.” He steered her to the other side of the deck.   
“What did I say?”  
“For your own safety, the safety of this vessel, and everyone on it, I would not mention the elder Kuryakin again. Very touchy subject. Our Russian friend may look like an overgrown man, but he has the temperament of a small child.”  
“What a reassuring combination. Are there any other triggers I should avoid?”  
“Don't insinuate his mother is a whore; that I can attest to from personal experience.” She raised an eyebrow,   
“Was she?”  
“Well, yes, probably, but I would not recommend it as a topic of conversation.”  
“Heavens.”  
“Um. And don't touch his watch – he's very protective of his watch.”  
“I shall endeavour to refrain from causing further insult. Ought I apologise?”  
“Um.” Solo made a face, silly enough Etta almost smiled at him, “No, I should just leave it.”  
“Very well, thank you for your intervention Mr Solo; it was well timed.”  
“Babysitting the Red Peril over there has become a full time job.” And she had thought it was the other way around. She had read about her new partner, of course, but not realised the extent of the problem. Her own past often came back to haunt her, she had learned early to control her reaction to it. But then, she did not have the benefit of six and half foot of solid muscle to back up her temper tantrums.

 


	3. Arrival in Cuba

**Illya**

“Well done Peril, you've made a great impression.”  
“She--”  
“You were a little insensitive about her mother, don't you think?”  
“I did not mean--”  
“Neither did she.”  
“I will apologise.”  
“Good, have another drink first.” Solo lent casually against the railings, and Illya found he didn't mind his presence, ever since Istanbul, the caustic remarks Solo favoured as his method of conversation had lost some of their cutting edge, they insulted one another because it was fun, but without venom. Perhaps this was what friendship was, he did not have many friends, well, he had none, really. Even other Russians seemed to think he was too dour. “Thank you.” Solo looked over, a question written on his face, “For the drink.” He nodded, silent, for once in his life. 

Etta was watching the mainland growing in the near distance, her shoulders even more tense than they had been; he knew they had to arrive in close proximity, looking like they were in love, but he did not want to touch her again. He had felt those brittle bones beneath his big hands, he hated knowing how easy it would be to break her, and he had come so close, with so little provocation.

“I am very sorry.”   
“As am I.” Etta turned, leaning against the railing, “Let's leave it at that, and be friends again.”  
“Yes.” She smiled her thin smile, it was a marvel really, how a woman with such full lips could smile so thinly. She reached out to take his hand, the one that was no longer tapping, and placed it carefully on her waist. “That's better, don't you think?” He left it where she had placed it, but it barely brushed the fabric. “So, when we get into Havana, we're meeting with the Russian Ambassador in the embassy as soon as we've settled into the hotel. Mr Solo says he will retain a low profile on the outskirts of the city, I don't know what that means to you, but I think we should be prepared for the plan to change without warning.”  
“The Cowboy, he is a good spy, he will not endanger our mission.”  
“Well, I'm glad you have such faith in him, but I frankly don't. If it were up to me, neither of you would be here. Since it is not, I am going to playing the defensive from here on out.”  
“You do not need to distrust us.”  
“I make it habit to distrust everyone, don't take it badly.” He sighed, this was not going to be fun.  
“Do you think the Russian Ambassador is involved?”  
“No. The Soviet Union does not assist Cuba in the development of viral agents, I have been assured.”  
“Well, that's a weight off.” She spoke so drily he wasn't sure if she meant it or not. “Do you think they've managed to activate them yet?”  
“We will not know until we find the lab.”  
“If they have, we could endanger half of Cuba by being reckless. Solo must not be allowed to run wild.”  
“Cuba endangers themselves by developing germ warfare for this Mr Thrush. We cannot be responsible for that.”  
“The Cuban people have no part in their governments idiocy! We must be as responsible as we would be on British, American, or Russian, soil.”  
“I did not mean we should be careless.”  
“Good. I do, as you said, have family in the country.”  
“Of course.” She lent up and suddenly pressed her lips against his, Illya tensed and went dead still, then she pulled away, smiling. “We're disembarking, darling.”

The hotel was not up to the standards of the Waldorf, Solo would have complained, but Illya was happy with running hot water and a sofa to sleep on. “I am going to change.”  
“We have to leave soon.”  
“And I have to change. Unzip me.” He did as she commanded, watching the opening dress reveal more and more glossy skin, and a... scar. Two inches long, risen, and a little red, it wasn't very old. “How did this happen to you?”  
“I turned my back on someone I shouldn't have.” She turned, one hand holding her dress up, “Yours?” Her unoccupied hand danced close to the side of his face,  
“I was unobservant, I did not notice a piece of glass, it was my fault.”  
“We learn from our mistakes.”  
“They are hard lessons.” She nodded once, and left to finish getting changed in the bathroom. 

It was not a good thing that he wondered how many more hard lessons she had learned, what would be revealed if he were to remove her dress, and everything else. No, it was not a good thing. It was more sensible to wonder how long she had been a spy, she looked maybe 25, she couldn't have been working for British Intelligence that long. Perhaps that was her first wound. It would not be her last, if she kept in this line of work. There were female KGB agents, he had worked with a few, and he knew many who had made an art out of hiding their scars; Etta reminded him of them, the way she hid behind her veneer of perfect lipstick and perfect hair, she was more scarred than she would ever let on, of that he was sure.

She had been right, when she said no one would treat her badly here, they didn't. She belonged, fit in with the many shades of people who walked the streets of Havana. Perhaps by extension, he felt more at home too, the looks they got were curious, not disapproving; and his accent did not cause consternation, but a smile, a nod of approval. “Would you like a coconut drink?”  
“Coconut water,” She said, with a smile, “And yes, please. That would be nice.” The man who gave them their drinks grinned widely,   
“Good day to both of you,” Illya nodded his thanks, and handed Etta her cup. She smiled, reaching to take his arm almost naturally, “Ah! God bless young lovers!” The man grinned and waved them off.

“You would never believe the horrors they have seen here, would you?”  
“The sun bleaches bones quickly. In the Soviet, the bodies freeze.” Etta looked up at him,   
“A poet too, if a morbid one. You are truly a renaissance man, Illya.” She took a thoughtful sip of her coconut water. “I could stay here. Give up my commission with MI6, have my things shipped from England, take residency. I could get married, and my children would not grow up feeling they did not belong. I could sit in the sun, read, play music, sing, here, I could be content.”  
“Here, you would be a communist.”  
“You are, you're not so bad.” When he looked down, he could only see her profile, eyelashes casting shadows over here cheeks, something almost gold glittering on her eyelids, and the curve of painted lips. She was so beautiful in the sunlight, polished and almost unreal, were it not for the sadness he saw etched into every line of her face.

“You have family in England.”  
“Yes,” She sighed, “But I have family here too.” Her voice was so quiet he felt like an intruder hearing it, the raw honesty at odds with her usual detached persona. He squeezed her arm, “I will take you apartment hunting tomorrow. If my wife wants a home in Cuba, a home in Cuba she will get.” Etta forced a quick laugh,  
“You are too good to me darling.” They took the rest of the walk in silence, and Illya's eyes strayed too often to his downcast companion. Would she look out of place in Russia? Layered in furs, feet booted, rather than decorated in heeled sandles? He thought she would look rather brilliant, bathed in the cold light of sun glaring off snow. There was gold all around the Kremlin, she would be a queen in those hallowed halls. And she would be out of place. “Are you ready?” He looked up at the steps of the Russian embassy,   
“I am.” She took a deep breath, and they made their way up. 

 


	4. The Caribbean Sea

**Etta**

The Ambassador had only taken a little subtle threatening to open up about the location of a man who would know the location of the lab. Since subtly was required, Etta had done most of it, Illya had just stood near her looking threatening, and once suggested the gentleman in question remember the fate of those who chose monetary advancement over the good of Mother Russia. His hand clenched reflexively over his watch as he spoke.

Etta had taken his tapping hand when they had made to leave, “We should go by the beach, the water is lovely in the dark.”   
“That is the best idea I've heard all night!” Etta felt Illya sigh next to her, and they both turned on Solo.   
“What are you doing here Cowboy?”  
“Just checking in, that went smoothly.”  
“Da.”  
“Etta's good influence, I imagine. Sadly, as much I would love to join you on the beach, I have a pressing appointment with a beautiful woman – so I will leave _this_ beautiful woman to your care Illya, chao!” He faded into the night, impressive for someone in such a white suit.   
“That man is going get us killed.” She said, primly.  
“One day, but not this day.” Etta let Illya tow her along to the beach, happy to follow for once. She was in no mood to sleep, her mind was full, and her body tense. The sound of the ocean would surely relax her.

It did, as did the rum Illya procured, but not enough. “I think I will take a swim, it's very quiet here. I'll meet you back at the hotel room, unless you want to join me?”  
“I do not have swim wear.”  
“Neither do I.” The dress she was wearing didn't have a zip, so she turned her back and pulled it over her head with an unnecessary flourish. Turning back to him, wearing white undergarments and nothing else, she smiled, “Well, is this goodnight?” It was fun, watching his face reflect his thoughts, even as impatient as she was. He went through a little horror, a little trepidation, a fair bit of lust, a little rationality, only to settle on unsettled. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Go back to the hotel room, Illya.” It was enough of a challenge to make his mind up, for a smart man, he was an idiot. He started to unbutton his shirt, and Etta turned back to watch the movement of the sea, not to protect his modesty, but to disguise her smile.

“It is not very British of you, to sea swim, almost naked. I would not let my woman do this.”  
“One of many reasons I would never be 'your woman'. And it's the African in me, we're all descended from savages, haven't you heard?” Illya frowned so deeply she thought he might hurt himself, “Not all I have heard has been true.”   
“Then perhaps it's the repression of an all girl's boarding school.”  
“Perhaps.” She stepped into the shallow breaking waves, and turned to look at him. Bathed in moonlight, he glowed, and looked rather endearingly shy about it.   
“We were given no freedom at school, and our line of work doesn't often allow one to cut loose, so when I get a taste of it, I tend to dive right in. Don't you?”  
“No.”   
"Tonight, you should. You'll enjoy it."  
“Hm.”   
  
  


 


	5. In the Light of the Morning

**Illya**

Of course, he did enjoy it. The last time he had been in the water, it had been colder, and he had been unconscious, near drowning. This water was warm, and the company was better, there was no one shooting at him, and no Napoleon Solo to make wry, self-satisfied comments about how he had saved his life. And Solo didn't look as good wet and semi-naked. She was incredibly beautiful, even with her muscles knotted together in tension.

He reached out bravely, placing too large hands on slim shoulders. “Breathe in,” She did as he requested, and he started to apply pressure, “Breathe out,” He felt her muscles begin to relax under his fingers, it wasn't exactly sensual massage, more on the practical side, as was most of what he knew. “You're not bad at this,”  
“Good.”  
“But it's not what I need right now.” She turned, bringing herself into the circle of his out stretched arms, “What do you need?”  
“I've engineered us semi-nude, into the ocean, in the middle of the night; what do you think I need from you, Illya?” Before he could reply, she raised a hand, and he found himself remaining silent, though he was outraged, “I warn you not to use the words 'my woman' at this moment – I will be become quite cross.” Illya almost rolled his eyes,  
“I would not tell _my wife_ she could not offer herself to me, not when she looked like this in the moonlight, I am not mad.” And he kissed her, which was exactly what he had wanted to do for longer than he realised. She was not Gaby, of course, but in a never ending ocean of midnight water, she was everything.

And it worked, she did relax, eventually. He was inside her, her legs were wrapped tight around his hips, and she was getting tenser and tenser as she moved against him, until she cried out and let her head fall onto his shoulder, suddenly loose. Her hands were almost tender on his back when she regained their use and continued their movement, he could still feel her fluttering around him when he came.

They stayed in the water for a while, her held in his arms, weightless, and it was as if they existed out of time, breath and heartbeat the only measure of its passing. “I think you lost my knickers.”  
“I think _you_ lost your... what?”  
“Knickers, panties, underwear.”  
“Well, they are yours, your responsibility.”  
“Then I shall look for them.” She pushed off his chest, disappearing into the dark water, no hope of finding anything, except, apparently, his leg; which she grabbed with her biting nails – certainly not causing the seasoned spy to jump.

The result of her assault was a rather ridiculous fight, she lost with no grace at all, until he kissed her again. It all seemed the wrong way around, the flirting and play fighting, coming after the copulation, but also made sense – when he held her to him now, he felt how easily she melted into his embrace, no stiffness left, and when she smiled, she looked younger, or perhaps, more her age.

They both slept in the double bed, though he offered to take the sofa, she just laughed it off. And when he woke to ringing of the hotel phone, her forehead was pressed against his arm. He moved his hand to stroke her hair, crusted in salt, since they had gone straight to bed from their midnight excursion. “It is morning Etta.”  
“Um,” She sat up, rubbing salt out of her eyes with a wince, “I'm going to shower. Will you order breakfast? We need to be out of here before 9am, I would like to have a location by this evening.” He nodded, impressed with, and disconcerted by her professionalism. Maybe she saw that in his eyes, because she dropped a kiss on his cheek before exiting the bed. In the morning light, they were not as easy as they had been beneath cover of dark.

Solo came in before nine, through the window, which was just disconcerting. They were both dressed, drinking coffee and playing an intense game of chess. Neither paid him much attention, until he made a loud gagging noise. “What is it, Mr Solo?”  
“How did Waverly find _two_ of you?”  
“Two of who?”  
“Two chess playing, 5am rising, super spies? We are in Havana! There is more fun to be had than gazing thoughtfully out at the sea for five minutes before you toddle of to bed!”  
“We did not gaze thoughtfully, we gazed with awe.” Replied Etta, pushing a pawn forward.   
“Of course you did.”  
“And we had enough fun. Did you enjoy your night with the mysterious beauty?” He grinned and lounged with a little more satisfaction,  
"I did. And I will say, I'm exhausted--”  
“You are in the company of a woman now Cowboy, not on the ranch.” Illya took Etta's knight mercilessly. Napoleon rolled his eyes, but didn't finish his thought. Watching the board, Etta sighed, “Check mate in five moves?”  
“Hm. Four.”  
“Well, congratulations. Let's be on our way.”  
“What? Right now? I haven't even had a coffee yet!”  
“You should have stayed for breakfast, it's the polite thing to do.” Etta reprimanded him,   
“I would have, but her husband was coming home.” Illya knocked over Etta's queen and gave his friend a hard look. “This is not good behaviour Napoleon.”   
“You really would love my mother, Peril.”

Taking pity on the man, who did look a little shaken at the use of his real name, Etta gave him a coffee, and five minutes to drink it before they left. The drive was not as silent as the previous one, there was the requisite briefing by Illya, no matter how unnecessary Solo deemed it, and then a discussion about chess, and then Illya asked Etta who she had played with, and they were talking about her family, and Solo was suspicious.

“Exactly how much fun did you two have last night?” About to rebuff his insinuation, Illya was surprised when Etta turned in her seat to pin Solo with her cool gaze, “That, is none of your business Mr Solo.” Which was an admission, if ever he had heard one, and not something Illya had expected. Though he shouldn't be surprised, she was a spy, her life was not ordinary, and she did not have to abide by ordinary standards. “Well,” Said Solo, and Illya cleared his throat,   
“Your next words have much bearing on your life expectancy Cowboy.” Solo also cleared his throat, and said nothing further on the subject.

 


End file.
